Blood, sweat, tears, and..shit, basically.

Menu

The search begins.

He sits by the bar, eyes weary from the extended hours of his day. Sorry excuses for Friday night friends dance, laugh and skip around him. Shallow company, but all so happy, so entirely happy.

Eventually he lets go. A little. Takes more frequent sips and occasionally, even a mouthful at one go. In a world of misfits, he fits in just fine.

The liars of tomorrow would tell him that his feelings, of whatever nature, are irrelevant and should not be considered. People come and go, walking right through you like you don’t exist. These people who think you insignificant should be then thought of as..insignificant.

The cycle repeats itself with no questions asked, because the stale but stinging awkwardness is just that good a deterrent.

One by one they approach, and he tries his best (not to detest but) to smile and exchange routine greetings that go nowhere.

Number 3’s a freelance model, or so she says. She’s a journalist too. She blogs about her shopping, her ungentlemanly ex-boyfriends and flashy photos of her nightclub dancing.

Such rare talent.

The night goes on and the strangers come and go. The music gets high and then low but the ambiance is stagnant.

Here’s an interesting one. Number 8’s a social media celebrity. She’s a writer too, mind you. She writes well because everyone agrees with her all the time.

Such quality in a person. Such insight.

His eyes are still weary. Now, his ears too. He wonders about how people actually communicate in places such as this because they seem to go from ‘Hello’ to..much more, in a very short time.

Such effective communication skills.

As the night draws closer to an end, or rather, just the club, Number 11 approaches.

This one’s different, he feels. She’s interested. She doesn’t talk about herself, unless she is asked to. She listens to him as he begins with the usual socially essential and acceptable introductions.

She giggles from time to time and tilts her head in amusement. He feels comfortable and feels like maybe, just maybe, he’d been too hard on himself and other people in general. Maybe there is hope after all and the world hasn’t gone to shit, yet.

In a matter of seconds, the conversation is halted, very abruptly. Number 11 climbs onto the bar top and fires off a warning shot. Kill the fucking music! , she screams in a tone that some might find quite attractive, in another context or situation.

As she commands the intoxicated, anxiety-stricken people with her voice (and large pistol), he taps on her feet with his index finger.

What do you want, she barks at him in that same, husky authoritative tone with a look that would kill, if she stared long enough.

I was thinking, maybe, we could have a milkshake or something, after you’re done here, of course.